


Seven Is The (Un)Holiest Number

by FrancescaMonterone



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Tempts Aziraphale (Good Omens), Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Seven Deadly Sins, Seven Heavenly Virtues, challenge, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-05-18 08:09:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19330549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancescaMonterone/pseuds/FrancescaMonterone
Summary: Their relationship can be measured in the weight of the silences between them. There was a silence after that first meeting, standing on the garden wall, looking out into the world, waiting. A hopeful silence, that one, a young, curious silence. As the years went by, that silence matured and grew into another – a secretive, lurking silence tingling with the promise of forbidden things, with undisclosed desires; ever watchful.After the not-end of the world, another silence: like the silence before a thunderstorm, when everything alive and inanimate appears to hold its breath in anticipation of the coming storm, anxious but not daring to quiver, until the wind rises and the floodgates open wide.Aziraphale is just too good to be true, literally. Crowley follows his demonic nature and tries to tempt him. It doesn't quite work out as planned.... Followed by a brief history of what happened after the world did not end.





	1. Crowley

**I. Wrath**

 

In hindsight, it should have been obvious. Crowley is a demon, the Snake of Eden, the instigator of the original sin. Tempting others is not only part of his job description; it’s part of his very nature.

And what better subject, what greater challenge than the angel who keeps bumping into him in odd places over the years that slowly turned into centuries?

Aziraphale is just too good to be true, literally.

So, Crowley tells his superiors in Hell to settle back into their chairs and enjoy the show, because this? This will be fun. They are all for it.

He begins conservatively. _Wrath_ is usually a safe bet when it comes to humans. Everybody gets angry sometimes. However, Crowley has not reckoned with Aziraphale’s innate gentleness, his apparently boundless capacity for forgiveness. To be sure, it is possible to upset him, to hurt him even (although Crowley finds himself feeling oddly guilty afterwards). But true anger? No. He will just look at you rather sadly, with those big blue eyes, until Crowley gives up and leaves in a huff.

He keeps at it for about two centuries, before deciding that it just isn’t worth the effort. There are six other deadly sins to go through, after all.

The following millennia prove him right: Aziraphale simply doesn’t _do_ true anger. Crowley has plenty of opportunity to watch him get annoyed, mostly because he is the chief cause for the angel’s annoyance; he sees him sulk and hears him grumble, but that’s it.

As it is, he probably should resent his failure a bit more, and he definitely should not be charmed. But when he closes his eyes, Crowley finds himself standing in the shadow of Aziraphale’s wing, sheltering from that very first thunderstorm.

 

* * *

 

**II. Gluttony**

 

Oysters. Funny thing, oysters.

Slobbery little sea-creatures, and not quite to Crowley’s taste, because they mostly taste of nothing but salt water and whatever you dip them into.

But Aziraphale eats them with a rapt expression of delight on his face, as if they compare to heavenly manna. Crowley is delighted as well: gluttony, he decided, should be an easy one. The Roman upper-class’ obsession with food slightly unnerves Crowley, but he has done his best to encourage it nevertheless – greed and gluttony and lust all mingle happily at those late-night banquets.

There are no late-night banquets for Aziraphale, obviously – or at least, Crowley hopes there aren’t (hopes? Since when does he care what the angel does in his spare time…?) – but he takes delight in all the exotic delicacies arriving from the far corners of the imperium. Lucullus has already brought cherries and apricots to Rome, and now there is Petronius with his oysters. There are other things, too, that Crowley thinks slightly foolish: thrushes and mice dipped in honey, for example. Why would one want to eat an animal that consists of hardly more than a bite of meat and some spindly bones? It just doesn’t seem worth the effort.

But there are many things he doesn’t understand about humans, even though he has spent millennia in their company.

Aziraphale turns to him with a smile, his eyes lively and sparkling over the rim of his wine cup. The light in the room is dim, but Crowley sees them, of course he sees them.

“This is nice. We should do it more often.”

_Please._  Crowley is not prepared for the intense longing those words kindle, and he doesn’t know what to do with it, so he rudely shoves it aside, determined to bottle it up.

“I’m busy,” he says, his expression guarded.

Aziraphale looks slightly disappointed, but inclines his head. “Of course, you are.”

He dips a piece of soft bread into the rich sauce, and Crowley’s gaze follows his fingers to his lips. Watching somebody eat shouldn’t hold this much interest, shouldn’t feel like you were doing something forbidden. It’s a boring, everyday act, after all.

And yet…

As the centuries pass, Crowley invents calories, foodporn and artificial flavoring, just to make himself feel better. Aziraphale is very upset with him for the latter, but never loses his childlike enthusiasm for new flavors, and Crowley watches him eat nearly every kind of food ever known to man.

Gluttony: check. He can write this one up as a great success. It feels like a hollow victory, somehow.

 

* * *

 

**III. Greed**

 

Humans and magpies have more things in common than either species would care to admit. Both are pretty much omnivores, for example, with a tendency to hoard food. They are diurnal and territorial and typically aspire to monogamy, but don’t always quite manage it. They also covet and collect shiny objects.

Angels and demons also covet things, but most of them aren’t corporeal. Souls won are the ultimate price, of course, and faith, and fear.

Crowley is very familiar with wanting, and instilling greed in humans is one of his specialties, but even though he dutifully attempts to tempt Aziraphale to exhibit greed, he doesn’t expect miracles. An angel should be quite above earthly treasures, after all.

The invention of books is an angelic enterprise, obviously, the better to spread the word of God. Crowley wants nothing to do with it and watches from the sidelines, faintly disgusted (but also envious). When he sees Aziraphale cradle one of Gutenberg’s newly printed bibles, however, he glimpses and opening.

_Well… maybe not so futile after all, eh?_

He subtly encourages beautifully illuminated manuscripts and rare books to cross path with the angel, and soon, there’s a sizeable collection that Aziraphale lovingly tends and proudly displays. Once bookshops become common enough to not cause a sensation, he immediately opens one (in London, where else?). Crowley gets the tour once all the books are shelved and makes situation-appropriate complimentary noises, while silently congratulating himself.

It lasts all of three days.

On the fourth, Aziraphale sells a rare and fabulously illustrated compendium of legends to a young scholar at below half the market price. Crowley scowls at him. “What did you do that for?”

The angel shrugs helplessly. “He was so enraptured, and he needed it for his research…”

Still frowning, Crowley crosses greed off his list. No luck here.

 

* * *

 

 

**IV. Lust**

 

The problem with temptation is that it works much better if you know what you’re doing. Demons have employed lust as a useful tool since the dawn of time, and with considerable success, too, but humans are governed by a biological imperative to procreate, as well as the divine imperative ‘be fruitful, multiply’. Angels lack both, and after the catastrophic failure of their Nephilim experiment, further hands-on research into the topic is not encouraged.

Still, one has to try, and Aziraphale is unconventional enough to maybe prove the exception to that rule. Crowley would also be lying through his teeth if he claimed he wasn’t a little curious.

He’s tried sex, of course, in a variety of constellations and settings, and strictly for research purposes, but has found it to be messy, troublesome, and generally just not worth the effort. There are too many bodily fluids involved for his taste, and the maelstrom of conflicting emotions is threatening to a demon who takes pains to keep himself aloof.

_It doesn’t have to escalate to sex, though_ , he comforts himself. _Just a little lust. Shouldn’t be that difficult._

They spend a lot of time together, these days, more than appropriate, really, and proximity breeds familiarity. It seems almost easy, laughing with Aziraphale over glasses of old wine, a flash of yellow eyes over the rim of his dark glasses, those faux-casual touches as they walk, and dine, and drink together, turning his body just so, into the light, stretching like a cat in the sun.

It never occurs to him that he could have set anybody else to tempt the angel, could have watched from the sidelines. It should be a neon-bright warning sign, but Crowley has gotten very good at ignoring those.

Aziraphale laughs and walks with him, and once even takes his hand - Crowley sets fire to the storm of butterflies inside his chest, knowing somewhere deep down that it’s too late for countermeasures, that he’s in too deep.

Lust never manifests.

 

* * *

 

 

**V. Pride**

 

The prize for teasing pride out of Aziraphale goes to Gabriel, much to Crowley’s disgust, and he vows to do something nasty to the archangel, but is momentarily distracted by his immense relief at not having lost Earth, Aziraphale and everything else (not that there _is_ much else).

Oh well. Gabriel can go fuck himself, for all Crowley cares, and take Beelzebub and all the rest of them with him.

Aziraphale turns to smile at him, and Crowley forgets them entirely.

 

* * *

 

 

**VI. Envy**

 

They watch Anathema and Newt spread a picknick blanket at settle down on the soft grass in the shade of old trees. Tadfield in summer is disturbingly picturesque, much more so after Adam’s subtle makeover, it almost makes you want to vomit (if you happen to be a demon).

There are flowers and busy bees, and ripening fruit, and sunny meadows everywhere, and the roses bloom in Anathema’s garden as if it was the very last day of the world, every day.

“I like seeing them together,” Aziraphale says conversationally, “they are good for each other.”

Crowley lets his head fall back into the sweet-smelling grass and rolls his eyes. “When’s the wedding?”

“Next spring. We’re invited.”

“What? Really?”

The angel shrugs. “They know us for what we are. And I suppose that after everything else, it doesn’t matter all that much anymore. It’s nice, though. I like weddings.”

“Of course, you do.”

A blue-gleaming dragonfly tries to settle on Crowley’s nose, and really, it’s too much. He catches it and turns it into a particularly ugly housefly. Aziraphale, shaking his head at him, turns it back.

Crowley sighs.

“Aren’t you a little jealous, though?” The angel asks, out of the blue.

“Jealous?”

“Of them.”

“Neither is my type,” Crowley says with a snort. “And I don’t quite see myself behind a white picket fence, either.” But then, a thought occurs to him, his snake-eyes narrowing. “Wait. Are you?”

_Envy_. And so unexpected, too.

“I… maybe? It seems so uncomplicated.”

Time for another eye-roll. He pushes himself up on his elbows and eyes Aziraphale over the rim of his glasses until the angel blushes and turns away.

“You caught yourself a demon, angel,” Crowley points out, his voice gently mocking. “You have no reason to envy those silly humans their distractions.”

 

* * *

 

 

**VII. Sloth**

 

Sunday mornings after the world did not end are much like Sunday mornings before, and yet completely different in small but important ways. Rain is tapping against the windows, another gloomy day in London, with water gathering in puddles on the dirty streets and the sun never showing its face.

And Crowley loves this dirty, rainy, loud, and corrupt city, has always loved it; who is he kidding, it is _home_. He could never have returned to Hell, not after so many centuries spent on Earth and among humans. His part in the Plan (be it great or ineffable, or anything else) was decided early on: tempt Eve, deliver the apple, set things in motion. Everything else…? Maybe everything else was just coincidence.

Aziraphale pads back into the bedroom, soft-footed, the smell of cocoa wafting ahead of him, and there’s sure to be something baked on delicious on the tray he deposits on the bedside table.

“It’s still raining.”

Crowley makes a noncommittal noise, muffled slightly by the pillow, and shifts to make room. “No reason to get up, then.”

“But,” Aziraphale protests faintly, “there are…”

“… things to do? Please. It’s Sunday. Can’t be anything important.” Crowley pats the space by his side.

“I wanted to sort the new books…”

“They aren’t exactly new, though, are they? And anyway, they’ve been in a heap on your desk for two weeks already, it won’t hurt them to be in a heap on your desk a bit longer.”

“Yes, but…”

Crowley reaches out an arm, grabs hold of the angel and pulls, insistently. Finally relenting, Aziraphale flops down onto the bed beside him, chuckling softly. “Fine. It’s come to this, huh? Sloth. You win this round, fiend.”

Grinning, Crowley shifts closer. “I won this one long ago.”

Aziraphale hums, wrapping an arm around him, and Crowley settles against his side comfortably, head on his chest, an arm and a leg slung over him, holding onto him in true snake-like possessiveness. He is warm and comfortable, and the rain is a soft background soundtrack to a lazy Sunday morning spent doing absolutely nothing and enjoying it.

_I could spend eternity like this_ , Crowley thinks, and then: _Maybe I will._

 


	2. Aziraphale

**I. Patience**

 

Celestial being or not, in essence Aziraphale is a creature of impulse. It’s part of what vexes Gabriel and Raphael and all his other siblings so; they simply cannot understand what motivates his actions. It’s also, Aziraphale secretly suspects, one of the reasons why he and Crowley seem drawn together like iron and magnet – there is a kinship between them, unspoken and unintended, but unmistakable.

Impulse is what motivates Aziraphale to drape his wing over the demon’s head, offering him shelter from the very first thunderstorm, when he should have wished for the snake, _the fiend, the adversary_ to perish in it. A simple act of kindness that will come back to haunt him, many times, over the long years of their acquaintance.

Kindness is a desirable quality in an angel, Aziraphale tells himself (and occasionally his superiors).

Even misguided kindness.

And Crowley is not your garden variety demon. There is something… _more_ about him.

It takes Aziraphale a long time (too long) to figure out what it is: whether you wish to call it immortal soul, inner light or anima, demons are not supposed to have it. They are, heavenly doctrine holds, incomplete and thus permanently dissatisfied. Presumably it’s one of the side effects of the Fall; or maybe a punishment.

But Crowley is different. Crowley, Aziraphale concludes after centuries of observation, _does_ have a soul. He comes to this realization in fits and starts, and the process is probably just as slow and torturous for Crowley as it is for Aziraphale - or maybe even more so, because nobody likes to be doubted, least of all by a loved one.

There are moments when Crowley’s soul is at the surface, its light blazing through him, seeping out of every pore. At other times, it is obscured, hidden away, a carefully guarded secret. Still, after he has seen it, Aziraphale can hardly believe that he is the only one to notice.

It’s all about virtues, Aziraphale muses, idly watching Crowley across a table littered with the remainders of a meal and too many bottles of wine. His hands flit through the air like midsummer-drunken birds, recounting an elaborate story. There are words pouring out of his mouth, but Aziraphale can’t concentrate on them, not with Crowley’s soul shining through, a bright, warm, familiar glow that he has come to treasure.

Virtues. While heavenly wisdom agrees that it is possible for a soulless and/or evil creature to accidentally or coincidentally act virtuously, purposeful virtuousness is the domain of the righteous and soul-possessing. Aziraphale suspects that there may be a middle ground, somewhere; because Heaven usually paints things black and white omitting the shades of grey in-between; but Crowley has no need of a middle ground. Aziraphale has kept count, and has seen him exhibit a whole catalogue of virtues over time. He’s a lot better at some than at others, but then, everyone has their favorites.

“Patience,” Crowley says, when Aziraphale confronts him with the thought. “You should definitely give me credit for patience; because I’ve waited _six thousand years_ for you to get here.”

_‘Here’_ presumably encompasses Aziraphale’s acknowledgement of Crowley’s soul, their current relationship status (hopeful), and this precise point in time and space, with the angel’s wings spread out and encircling them, like a sheltering tent, like a great white cloud.

 

* * *

 

 

**II. Temperance**

 

“Can I tempt you to a piece of cake?” Aziraphale asks, pointing of the array spread out in front of them, slices of different color and texture, all of them exquisitely decorated.

There’s a new bakery around the corner from the bookshop, and he was unable to walk past it one more time without getting a taste.

Crowley raises a sardonic eyebrow at him. “ _You_ shouldn’t tempt _me_ to anything,” he points out.

It’s an old joke, really.

“Well…”

Aziraphale staunchly refuses to be embarrassed by his misstep and insistently pushes a piece of lemon and poppyseed cake with a very nice pattern of white and dark chocolate on top towards the demon.

Crowley eats about half of it (mainly to humor him, Aziraphale suspects), and talks about music between sips of tea.

Oh, and he watches. Crowley always seems to watch him, sometimes surreptitiously, sometimes openly. He used to do it from the shadows, but they have given up most of their pretense by now; it seems pointless in a post-apocalyptic world of new alliances and possibilities.

Crowley watches him with an intensity that makes the act appear somehow improper, but at the same time there is a quality of warmth to it, an immense fondness and… oh well, maybe Aziraphale should just admit that he doesn’t mind being watched.

And if Crowley never finishes his cake, well, temperance is a virtue, isn’t it? It is difficult to blame somebody for being virtuous without feeling spiteful. Even if said somebody happens to be a demon.

 

* * *

 

 

**III. Charity**

 

At first, Aziraphale thinks that it is coincidence that brings Crowley and him together, but after a while, that begins to look increasingly improbable.

Curiosity, then.

The demon certainly _is_ curious; as curious about Earth and humankind and all of the Lord’s creation as Aziraphale himself, and it’s nice to finally be able to share his excitement with somebody who understands.

Tracking Crowley’s movements becomes something of a routine, after all it’s his job to report on demonic activity on Earth, and to thwart evil plans and manipulations where necessary. And Crowley appears to be doing some tracking of his own, because he steps into Aziraphale’s path far too frequently. He appears to be content with watching, though, and rarely interferes with whatever Aziraphale is working on.

All in all, Crowley is a surprisingly courteous demon.

And of course, there are the surprise rescues.

Getting caught up in the French Revolution and ultimately _locked up_ in the Bastille because he was in the mood for grapes is… well, foolish, and Aziraphale blushes under Crowley’s incredulous look, but oh! He’s glad to hear the demon’s dry voice.

And London, 1941…?

A demon running into a church – _“stopping you getting into trouble”_ – his feet burning as he steps onto consecrated ground. Who has ever heard of such a thing?

And the books…

Aziraphale holds them, turning the bag, unable to believe what he just witnessed. Demons aren’t supposed to be kind. Demons aren’t supposed to use their power for good, and they most certainly aren’t supposed to feel charitable enough towards angels to rescue both them and their books.

Charity is a virtue, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

**IV. Diligence**

 

On a bright Saturday morning after the world hasn’t, in fact, come to an end, Aziraphale is perched on a chair in Crowley’s frightfully stylish kitchen watching the demon flip pancakes. Reality really has taken a beating, and this is just another symptom of it, he muses. There is no other way to explain the situation.

“It’s all in the wrist.” Crowley explains, expertly maneuvering a golden pancake from the skillet to a waiting plate.

“I’ll take your word for it, dear.”

Aziraphale takes a sip of tea. The morning paper lies next to his cup, its title page commenting on the unusual weather. _‘Is this climate change, or just an unusually warm summer?’_

“Or maybe a boy who just wants to hold on to his childhood for a little while longer,” Aziraphale mutters, shaking his head. It’s a bittersweet thought. All humans are doomed to lose the innocence and simplicity of childhood, but some struggle against it more than others. Like Lucifer’s followers falling – some racing downwards like shooting stars, cries of glee dying on their lips, some tumbling along aimlessly, their eyes widening in horror as they realize what it means…

Surreptitiously eyeing the demon over the top of the paper, Aziraphale is willing to bet that Crowley belonged to the latter kind.

“He’ll be fine,” Crowley says, presumably carrying on the conversation about Adam. “He faced Satan and ended the Apocalypse; I’d say he’s prepared for anything life could throw at him.”

He pushes a plate across the counter towards the angel, pancake, strawberry preserves and clotted cream all arranged to flawless perfection, lightly sprinkled with icing sugar. Aziraphale wonders if he is being bribed or wooed, and at the same time, why Crowley would believe that either is necessary at this point.

His escape is a blindingly radiant smile. “Thank you, this is lovely.”

Crowley hums, shrugs, and turns around to clear away kitchen equipment and ingredients, wipe the stove and do the dishes.

Aziraphale takes small bites of his pancake, savoring the taste and watches, wondering.

_Dear Lord, it appears that I have domesticated a demon…_

There’s laughter bubbling up inside his chest, and it’s a little hysterical.

 

* * *

 

 

**V. Gratitude**

 

Aziraphale and Crowley share a recurring nightmare they never talk about.

It’s one of the (many) unspoken rules between them to never mention the what-ifs of the Not-Quite-Apocalypse.

If Crowley’s sees Aziraphale shudder every time he crosses his threshold and remembers the untimely end of Ligur, Duke of Hell, and how easily that could have Crowley’s own fate, he never mentions it.

Likewise, Aziraphale never comments on the slight hesitation in Crowley’s sauntering steps when he enters the bookshop and remembers the flames licking away at the shelves and the books themselves, remembers the way the sky came crashing down when he thought that Aziraphale had been taken from him.

Fire and water; it would be poetic if it weren’t so terrifying.

They both remember, they both fear, but the words are never spoken.

Their relationship can be measured in the weight of the silences between them. There was a silence after that first meeting, standing on the garden wall, looking out into the world, waiting. A hopeful silence, that one, a young, curious silence. As the years went by, that silence matured and grew into another – a secretive, lurking silence tingling with the promise of forbidden things, with undisclosed desires; ever watchful.

After the not-end of the world, another silence: like the silence before a thunderstorm, when everything alive and inanimate appears to hold its breath in anticipation of the coming storm, anxious but not daring to quiver, until the wind rises and the floodgates open wide.

Their unspoken memories of fear form yet another silence, smaller than the previous three, but not unnoticed.

Aziraphale remembers Crowley’s expression when he came to find him at that pub, drunken on alcohol and sorrow. Gratitude, in its purest form. If it hadn’t seemed so improbable, he would have said that the demon was praying, was pledging whatever he could offer in return for the miracle he had been granted.

That was ridiculous, of course. But Crowley had been grateful to the point of foolishness.

 

* * *

 

 

**VI. Humility**

 

Humility is the one virtue not even Aziraphale – graced with angelic patience and the best of intentions – can find in Crowley. (Or anywhere in his vicinity, for that matter.)

Try as he might, neither in examining the demon’s past deeds, nor his present actions, turning and studying them in the most favorable light and through rosy-tinged glasses, can he turn up a trace of humility.

But then, it was never a favorite of his, anyway.

With an inward shrug, Aziraphale settles in for the long haul, content to watch and wait for another millennium, or three, or six. Humility will turn up, somewhere, sometime. They all have, so far.

 

* * *

 

 

**VII. Chastity**

 

Anathema’s and Newt’s wedding day dawns bright and warm, and Aziraphale would blame Adam if he hadn’t seen Crowley stealthily redirect a raincloud or two.

They are standing in a meadow full of flowers and there are more flowers decorating the tables and the pavilion where the young couple stands, hands joined.

“Funny, I do seem to remember something about witches and dank caves or crooked shacks with sagging roofs deep in the woods,” Crowley comments.

“She appears to have misplaced her broom, too.”

“This from the angel who lost his flaming sword. _Twice_.”

“I didn’t _lose_ it; I gave it away. There’s a difference,” Aziraphale protests. “And it was for a good cause.”

Crowley shrugs. “I could say the same about Eve and the apple. Incidentally, that’s how we all got here.”

“That might be an over-simplification,” Aziraphale says mildly, but he remembers the Garden, too. There are certain parallels in today’s setting that might be too subtle for a human eye but cannot escape an angel.

“I suppose we’ve come full circle.”

Crowley’s brow furrows. “Then let’s hope that they don’t call their sons Cain and Abel,” he remarks, only half in jest.

“How do you know that… well, that they’ll have children, anyway?”

“Of course, they will,” Crowley says airily, “they’re human; it’s what they do.”

He has a point there, Aziraphale supposes. _Be fruitful, multiply_ , God said, and as further encouragement, she ensured that the act itself would be enjoyable to them. Aziraphale idly wonders if even the Creator of the Universe had expected that particular experiment to get so out of hand, with seven billion humans crawling over every last bit of the planet like ants.

That reminds him, though – “Chastity! I never thought of it before, but that’s one virtue that comes natural to you.”

He smiles at Crowley, who doesn’t seem particularly impressed. “It’s not all that surprising, though, is it?” He says drily. “Besides, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work that way. It’s only a virtue if you have to work for it. You wouldn’t give an asexual monk much credit for remaining celibate, would you?”

“Well…”

“I appreciate the thought, though,” Crowley says, grinning.

“You’re making fun of me,” Aziraphale accuses, because he knows very well what Crowley thinks about his obsession with finding virtues in a demon.

“Never,” Crowley says, still smirking, and Aziraphale feels a hand between his shoulder blades, where his wings would sprout from his back if they had any place in this plane of existence, gently but insistently steering him towards the pavilion.

They join the wedding party; they talk and they laugh, and they eat and dance with the others until late in the night and when Anathema and Newt bid their guests good-bye and go on to savor the joys of matrimony (with everything that entails), an angel and a demon return to London, hand in hand.


End file.
